He knew why it had to be done the way it was, but he couldn’t for the life of him sort out why the Dread Master had chosen him, the resident foot soldier, to undertake this assignment when any of the others would have been a better choice.
The print shop was quiet when he arrived. Miss Vera’d not given him a time when she’d wanted him to arrive. Perhaps he’d missed the mark and ought to have been there sooner.
She looked up from the green-covered penny dreadful in her hand when he stepped inside, the bell ringing overhead.
“Morning, Miss Vera.” Brogan popped his hat off. “Hope you don’t mind me calling you that. ’Twas what the customers called you when I was here last.”
“I don’t mind.” She tucked the story on a shelf under the counter. “But when you meet my papa you’d best call me Miss Sorokina. Wouldn’t do to set him against you straight off.”
“Meet your papa?” He assumed an overblown look of horror. “I’d intended to apply for a job. Seems I overshot the mark.”
She smiled at his jest, but in a way that told him quite clearly that she’d not intended to. “My papa owns the shop. Though you’re working for me, you have to meet with his approval.”
Ah. “’Tis why the shop’s called ‘Sorokin’s’ and not ‘Sorokina’s.’”
She nodded. “I’d wager most people will insist it’s an error rather than admit there’s things they don’t know.”
“They can’t all be as well-versed as I am,” he said.
“And what is it you know about Russian?” she asked, a twinkle of amusement deep in her eyes.
“I know that daughters and fathers aren’t always going to have the same surname. Learned that a couple days ago, I did.”
“At least I know you’re a quick study,” she said. “I’ll mention that as a point in your favor if my papa decides he don’t care for you.”
“How likely is he to decide I’m a good-for-nothing?”
“Hard to say.” She studied him, though, again, there was a teasing quality to it he wasn’t certain she meant to let show. “How do you feel about writers?”
For a fraction of a second he couldn’t sort out a response. She was striking far too close to the mark. “How am I meant to feel about them?”
She shook her head. “Ask my papa some time. He’ll spill a whole heap of complaints in your ear.”
“He’s not overly fond of writers, then?”
“That’s hitting far below the mark.”
Oh, mercy. He was in a stickier spot than he’d realized. Fletcher or Stone would’ve known immediately how to navigate this. Brogan was going to have to do some fast thinking.
“Papa’s downstairs working at the printing press,” Vera said. “He’ll need to give you a look over before you start.” She motioned Brogan to follow her toward the back.
He needed to win the approval of a man who despised writers. Might as well attempt to restore hair to a bald man’s head.
A small back room connected them to another door, beyond which were two narrow staircases, one leading up and one leading down. Brogan followed Vera to the basement. The space was not overly large, but was sufficient for the large printing press, the cupboard with equipment, the shelves of paper and ink bottles. It was organized and well-laid out.
At a tall table in the midst of it all, a man near about fifty years old sat bent over a row of metal letters. His sleeves were protected with coverings. He wore thick glasses perched at the end of his nose. His silver-streaked beard was long enough to nearly touch the table.
“Ganor O’Donnell’s here, Papa. The bloke I told you was taking up the job we had on offer.”
For not the first time, Brogan was glad he’d given a false name that he’d used before. He’d be less likely to forget ’twas his name in this shop.
Mr. Sorokin turned slightly on his stool and studied Brogan over the rim of his spectacles. He scratched at his beard. “You are not a very large man. This job requires a lot of physical labor.”
While Vera sounded entirely London, her father spoke with the undeniable flavor of Russia.
“Most of m’ countrymen aren’t large people,” Brogan said. “But we know how to work.”
“Irish?” Mr. Sorokin’s eyes narrowed.
Brogan nodded. “London’s filled to bursting with people from other places.”
“That it is.” Mr. Sorokin returned his gaze to his table. “We’ll give you the day to prove yourself. If you can and will do the work, and you aren’t a drunkard, then you have a job, O’Donnell.”
“A drunkard?” Brogan looked to Vera. “Is that a commentary on m’ origins?” The Irish were often assumed to be in a constant state of inebriation.
Vera shook her head no. “One of the men who applied for the position arrived drunk as a wheelbarrow.”
“Ah.” ’Twas a far better reason for the comment than he’d feared. “I’ve been working since I was a tiny lad, and I’ve never once shown up tipsy as a two-legged cow.”
“See that you keep that pattern, and this’ll work out just fine.”
Brogan followed her back out of the printing room and up the stairs.
“No drinking,” he repeated, “and no writing.”
“Not even mentioning writing or writers is likely a better approach.”
“His disapproval is that looming?” That’d make his position at the print shop all the more precarious.
“He’s miffed that I sell penny dreadfuls in the shop,” she said. “He begrudges having to even step inside now that they’re there.”
“But he’s not bothered by you reading them?” He’d been in this shop twice, and twice he’d come upon her reading one of the familiar pamphlet stories.
Vera didn’t answer directly. Her guilty expression did it for her.
Blimey. Mr. Sorokin disapproved of penny dreadfuls in particular. What had the Dread Master tossed Brogan into?
“Why’s he so set against stories and the folks that write them?”
“That ain’t my history to tell,” she answered. “But we have decades of reasons to keep our distance from the literary set.”
We. Not he. “But you still read the stories.”
A weariness settled over her. “I shouldn’t. I feel guilty every time, but . . .”